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The instant her son started shouting threats, Councilwoman Susie Bonning panicked. Seeing the unlicensed surgeon's expression turn unreadable, she blurted out,
"Doctor, I'll sign any liability waiver you want! As long as the surgery succeeds, I won't pursue anything. Whatever my son says doesn't count."
Thomas Bonning snarled from the bed, clutching his side. "The hell it doesn't! When I say I'll kill someone, I kill them! Nobody stops me!"
That, right there, was why no one in Cedars–Sinai Medical Center dared to touch him. Any other patient with an allergy to anesthetics might still find a doctor willing to take the risk. But not this one.
Everyone in that room had seen enough of the world to know — when a desperate man says he'll kill a doctor, he's not bluffing. And when that man happens to come from an old-money family with political power? He doesn't even need to get his own hands dirty.
No one here was about to throw away a career — or a life — for some entitled brat.
So when the unlicensed surgeon hesitated, the gathered specialists exchanged knowing looks. Another one giving up, they thought.
But the Tinkerer wasn't like the others. He gave Susie Bonning a cool glance.
"No need for paperwork," he said. "Just remember your promise."
Then, without another word, he snapped, "Move the patient to the operating theater. We're doing an appendectomy."
Thomas refused to walk — claimed the pain was unbearable — and insisted on being wheeled there. He also refused to let any male nurses touch him, forcing the hospital's handpicked VIP nurses — all tall, elegant, and beautiful — to lift him onto the chair.
The man wasn't small, and their delicate model-like frames weren't built for heavy lifting. They had to work together, straining their cores, pressed close to his body just to hoist him upright.
By the time it was done, the three nurses were flushed, sweating, and rumpled — and he was grinning like a wolf. Thomas inhaled dramatically, leering as he sniffed his hands right there in front of his mother.
The men in the room could only clench their jaws. They couldn't step in; one wrong move and they'd end up accused of assaulting the golden boy of Los Angeles' most powerful family. The nurses, used to the unspoken "VIP services" that came with this ward, only adjusted their uniforms and put their polite masks back on.
"Mr. Bonning, we'll take you to the operating room now," one said sweetly.
"Perfect," he replied, smirking and pinching her waist as they wheeled him out.
The entourage moved down the gleaming corridor — Thomas up front, flanked by nurses; the doctors behind; and Henry, in full Fixman gear, bringing up the rear.
Behind him trailed Susie Bonning and her cluster of aides and family members, a parade of tension and quiet dread heading toward the restricted wing.
Once there, security stopped the family at the boundary. The waiting area beyond was stocked like a luxury lounge — bar, sofas, and all. Only the surgical staff continued inside.
Henry changed into sterile scrubs, disinfected his tools, and entered the operating room — just in time to hear Thomas mouthing off again.
"Ahh, so this is an OR," the boy drawled, grinning at the nurses. "Never been in one before. Tell you what — whoever gives me a BJ before we start gets a hundred bucks."
The nurses inside — not the same ones who'd escorted him — said nothing. These were trained surgical staff, professionals. But even they weren't immune to the knowledge that their patient could ruin their lives with a word. They didn't dare show disgust — only tight smiles and silence.
Then the Tinkerer stepped in, and the room shifted.
Thomas sneered at him. "Scarface, don't think my mother's money makes you untouchable. Whatever pain I feel today, I'll make you feel twice tomorrow. You'd better pray your magic works — or you're dead."
A sharp metallic clang split the air.
The boy's eyes rolled back, his body stiffened, and he hit the floor like a sack of meat.
Every doctor, nurse, and assistant froze — staring at the aluminum baseball bat now resting in Henry's hands.
Even the specialists who had just entered the room gawked at the sight. One of them finally stammered, "You… you brought that in here?"
Henry lifted the bat, inspected it, and said calmly, "Relax. It's been sterilized."
That wasn't the problem — but no one dared point it out.
"You," Henry said, pointing to a few male staff members. "Get him on the table."
Then, to the nurses: "Straps. Tight as they go. If he wakes up mid-surgery, it'll be hell for everyone."
When no one moved, Henry clapped his hands sharply. "Come on, people! We don't have all day. The longer you stand there, the higher the odds he wakes up — and the more work it'll take to knock him back out."
He glanced at them, eyes glinting behind the mask. "I know half of you want to take a swing yourselves, but let's show a little professionalism, huh?"
One of the surgeons muttered weakly, "Weren't you supposed to use acupuncture to paralyze him? Like you did with Andrew Saxon?"
That name made everyone tense. They all remembered the other operation — the gangster found unconscious and paralyzed, gold needles still in his flesh when the police dragged him away. The rumor had spread through every hospital in L.A.
Henry just shrugged. "What does it matter how the patient goes under? As long as the surgery gets done." He smirked. "Unless you'd rather take over?"
Every head shook violently.
No one wanted that job. No one wanted any part of this.
They just wanted to survive it.
And as they began strapping the unconscious heir to the table, every person in that room understood the same thing — whatever happened next, none of them were going to forget it.
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